


a choking rose

by spicy (suanla)



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/F, Rough Sex, Some biting, Strap-Ons, character study? maybe? not really, hurt/comfort ? also not really but there is certainly some sort of catharsis here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27854114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suanla/pseuds/spicy
Summary: You visit Nadia once more before her trial.
Relationships: Apprentice/Nadia (The Arcana), Nadia (The Arcana)/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 115





	a choking rose

**Author's Note:**

> title: agnes - glass animals
> 
> what it says on the tin; takes place the night before the trial scene. i think maybe this ao3 account is just for fics where tops reveal a bit about their character while simultaneously giving somebody the dicking down of their life

The improvised rope is already thrown over, knotted thrice to the balcony when you creep up to it. 

It’s easier to climb this time, under the moonglow. Your palms don’t get as sweaty, and you can take your time; it’s cold and dark in the night, and Nadia isn’t staring down at you, making you nervous with only her presence. It takes a long, embarrassingly wobbly moment for you to finally flip onto the safe side of the railing, and you bump a flowerpot over in your struggle. Sheepishly, you right it.

Her door is open, a sheer wisp of lavender curling around to peek out at the Vesuvian night. You push past her curtain and see her perched at her vanity. 

A song you’re unfamiliar with comes crackling from a curious machine placed under a lovely landscape painting on the wall. You wonder if Nadia made the strange instrument herself. The tune itself is smooth, and takes its time, though there is a gravelly quality to the sound.

You feel faintly lightheaded at the whole experience.

When you step in, coughing awkwardly as you do, she spares your reflection a glance in the mirror. There’s a crinkle at her brow and a rigid set to her mouth. Her shoulders are stiff. With practised ease, she finishes tightening her braid, cinching it with a small golden cuff. Once she’s satisfied, she turns and settles her imperious gaze on you. 

“I heard…” In the mirror, her gaze flickers to the balcony, and her eyebrows tug further down. “A scuffle.”

You wince. “Ah, it was nothing.” A wave of your hand. A step closer. Unsure if she wants comfort. “I… tripped. Um, into a plant. Sorry.”

Nadine doesn’t look very happy with you, but she gives you a flicker of a smile anyway. “Don’t apologize. Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes,” you say, mildly, a stilted pause between each syllable. You clear your throat. “I’m okay, I promise. I mean—are _you_ all right?”

“Yes,” she says, simply, though she averts her gaze to her own reflection. 

You make up your mind. Comfort. 

You cross the distance, setting your hands on her shoulders just as she sighs and leans back into you. Briefly, her hand rises to cover your fingers, accepting the small comfort, before it moves away. She sighs again, and you watch her eyes slip closed in the mirror. 

It’s strange to be standing over her, though you’re still not taller by much. Even sitting, she is so clearly a tower of a woman—a solitary one, at that. 

You squeeze her shoulders, rubbing over the tightness of her muscles. Slowly, she relaxes. 

Mesmerized, you study her face. Every movement, from the easing of her frown to the slight parting of her lips, you catalogue away to remember later. 

Eventually, her eyes open and finds you in the mirror. This time when she touches your hand, she presses down lightly, stopping you. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs after a moment. 

“You deserve it,” you insist, giving her shoulders another squeeze. “Can I keep going?”

She automatically opens her mouth to deny, but then something about you makes her pause. She blinks at you, curious now. “Do you… want to?”

Of course. You smile and shrug. “I want to help you. I want to make you feel better.”

“You came; that’s enough for me,” she says, still watching you in the mirror. You’re about to reply when she finally turns around in her seat, catching your hand in hers. She pulls you into her lap, sideways. 

Instinctively, you inhale the smell of her, head dipping close to her chest. A hand combs through your hair, tugging through the rare knot. Your free hand slips around and clings to the nape of her neck, feels the ghost of her hair brushing over your knuckles.

You sigh, eyelids feeling a little heavier, in her familiar warmth. Sometimes, it feels like you’ve known her your whole life. 

After what you think is an appropriate amount of time, you pull back to get a good look at her face. “Really, how are you? I’m here to listen if you want.”

She smiles in that way again—quickly and convincingly enough. “I know.” You can feel a pinch at your hip though, where her hand has tightened. When you glance down, at the space between you, her hold abruptly loosens. “I… I’ll be all right.”

She’s changed her answer. A mistake, and she knows it if her put upon sigh is anything to go by. 

“You’re upset. Of course, you’re upset.” You try to sound soothing, reassuring. “You’re allowed to be, you know?”

Your name, when she says it, sounds like a breath of relief, or a prayer, or—

This time, her sigh is more forceful—if you didn’t know better, you would call it impatient. Alas, you _do_ know better; you do know her. She’s never become short with you before, and she hasn’t started now. Her fingers nudge at your chin, lifts it. 

For what feels like ages, she simply looks at you. There’s always something so focused about her. Sometimes, it’s a single-minded kind of commitment to something that makes you feel like you’re racing to keep up and, other times, it’s an unwavering, heated attention that sets your cheeks flaming. Right now, it’s a shade off the latter. Like you’re a puzzle she wants to put together and, at the same time, thoroughly dismantle. 

Then, she blinks, and it’s gone, and yes, you’re left to wonder after her. 

Your brain stutters and pauses when she leans in, presses a heartachingly soft kiss to your lips. Her nails scratch pleasantly at the back of your scalp. Your eyelids slide shut.

As she pulls away, you exhale shakily. Even with your eyes closed, you can sense her scrutiny. 

A moment later, a fingertip traces over your cheekbone, and she speaks, “I’m upset, yes; would you like to know more? Tell me, my love, will you help bear the burden?” 

“Yes,” you say, immediately, nudging your face into her hand. “Yes.”

Her palm comes to cup your face fully, thumb domineering on your cheek, angling your face the way she likes it. Her voice is soft as thick furs, smooth as fine silk, blanketing over the razor edge of something more forceful: “Would you beg to?”

A gasp escapes you. You open your eyes to her face, your pupils blown. Heat coils low in your stomach. 

Sitting parallel to her fireplace, she looks sharper. The lines of her face more defined, the softer parts of her hidden in the shadows. Her finger smooths over your temple. If her touch weren’t as scorching as it so were, you’d think she were a statue carved lovingly from marble. 

It’s then, the second time her wandering fingers brush over your lips, that you realize she’s waiting for your move. She always has time to waste on you, apparently. You’re not dumb. Some people seem to think you’re at her beck and call—and you are—but there’s that tone, that attitude, about them that suggests you’re being taken advantage of, being used, by her. It’s not a giant mental leap, considering her station and then yours, so far below. And there’s that thing where she’s being put on trial, and you’re still unfailingly loyal to her. They think she has you enthralled. It’s true, you suppose. But they don’t know how much she cares about you in return. They don’t know.

You wet your lips, and on the third pass over, her fingers catch on your damp lower lip. Her eyes zone in on your mouth. 

When her eyes return to yours, the intensity of her gaze tightens the coil in your centre. One eye flares bright in the firelight, the other a dark ring of crimson, shadowed by the proud bridge of her nose. 

“I want to help,” you finally say, voice but only a whisper lost in the vast space of her room. 

She hears, though. She always notices you, looks upon you with kindness. You just want to return the favour. 

“Please.”

“Be certain,” she warns. 

You’re nodding already. “I am.”

She doesn’t smile like you expect her to. So often she has teased you, baited you, with that sultry curl to her lips. Tonight, she only hardens the line of her mouth and withdraws her hands. 

You almost cry out at the loss, only she tuts and what comes out instead is a pathetic, dying end of a whimper. 

“To tell the truth,” she starts, and immediately, you snap to attention, latching on to her every word, “I am not just _upset_. I’m…frustrated. I’m angry—I’m _livid_.” And her fist lands with a thump on her vanity. For a fleeting second, you catch a wild, almost frenzied, look on her face. But her eyes flutter for a moment, gathering herself, and she levels you with that even look of hers. Ever the bastion of self-control and discipline. “Up. On the bed,” she commands.

You slip off her lap, feeling her take a bit of your courage with her when her hand slips off your waist. You feel as small as you did when you first met her, and it doesn’t help that her bed is a good distance away. Her eyes track you the whole way.

Only once you’re sat on the edge of her bed does she inhale sharply and stand. She makes for her drawers and begins undoing the knot holding her robe together. 

“Undress. Lie on your back.” Her robe slips carelessly off her shoulders and then she pauses, to look over her shoulder, considering you. Your insides go molten at the look. At the smooth brown expanse of skin.

“Nadia,” you say, and it comes out like a question. 

“Keep the necklace on,” she says, softly, turning back to her task.

You’re thankful she’s looking away, so she can’t see the hasty way your fingers yank at your tunic and fumble at the string of your pants. Your clothes, the plain ones you had put on for this covert visit, lie in a pile on the floor and it looks out of place compared to the blinding extravagance of Nadia’s room. Uncomfortable with it, you decide to fold them up and leave them in a tidy pile upon the ground. Only then do you settle back on the mattress.

Nadia’s staring at you when you glance over, eyes crinkled in amusement. “So good,” is all she says about it, and it has you flushing instantly. Predictably, she notices, and a satisfied smirk touches on her face before she finishes up—

“Oh,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

Her body comes to a screeching halt. Something foreign crosses her then, something like uncertainty. “You—We don’t have to do this.”

“No, I want to,” you say, humiliatingly fast. Her eyebrows raise. “I want to help you. Nadia, I want to be useful.”

“You are,” she says, vehemently. She doesn’t stop looking at you, wants you to understand how much she means it. “Know that you are.”

“Yes,” is all you say. This time, you’re not so sure if she can hear you. 

She clasps the last buckle on the leather straps, grabs a bottle off the dresser, and approaches, stepping delicately over her crumpled robe. Your eyes dart from the dildo jutting from her hips to the stern look that has returned to her face. 

When she steps up, legs pressed against the side of the bed, you automatically part your knees for her. 

She sets a hand on your inner thigh, running it up and down. “You understand how… trying it is. To not remember. To try so hard, you think yourself into a migraine,” she says, voice strangely soft.

You nod.

“Before this mess, even, I felt trapped by my circumstance.” Her hand stops, fingers pressing down hard enough to bruise for a fleeting moment. Then, she pulls away. “I detest incompetence, inaction, _powerlessness_ , and yet I have been forced and cornered into becoming that which I so hate. I have allowed it to happen. Again.”

As she speaks, she uncorks the bottle and spills a bit of the content onto the phallus. Oil—though, you doubt she really needs it considering how wet you are right now. She can tell, too, what with the view that you’ve so kindly granted her. Well, better safe than sorry.

She tosses the bottle aside and looms over you, suddenly. Her hand seizes your jaw, pushing your head up, up, up, so your neck is presented to her. She lays her forehead there, in a deceptively intimate gesture. 

The tapered end of her cock prods at your stomach, and you can’t help but wriggle a little against her. 

Her hand tightens and you gasp out. “I am certain we can achieve greatness, you and I, surely,” she mutters into your skin. You feel the brush of her eyelashes over your overheated skin. “Alas, I can only make do with what I am given.”

This, you’ve noticed, is true. 

Nadia is bright, earnestly honest, kind, and yet she ventures no further than the boundaries placed. She takes what she’s given and presumes nothing else. It’s characteristic, all things considered. Her sisters, having so many of them, had grown first, blooming like wildflowers from wet soils. She was given the leftover space, scrambling to catch up. When she sought out something for herself, someplace where she could make a meaningful difference, she found only the fences which the Count had built around her. After him, the court was charged with stifling her. In your dynamic, too, this phenomenon prevails. Where you step back, she steps in. Where you step forward, she steps away. 

There is her unwavering self-confidence, though. She suffers no lies about her capabilities, for she is clever and creative, reasonable like no other. She knows where her own limits are, and they are far, far off. It’s just that she respects, to a fault, the boundaries other people place over hers. 

So, you won’t stand in her way. 

“Nadia,” you whisper, and it comes strained under the hot drag of her tongue. Yes, you’ll give yourself over to her.

Her teeth scrape over the path she just licked up your throat, closing with an audible click. She hums, the hand on your thigh drifts to your ribs, curling tight. “Yes? What is it, my love?”

“Let me help you.” You trust her; you trust that you can take whatever she gives. That you can give up whatever she wishes to take. “Test my boundaries,” you say, knowing she shall find none. “Or set them for me yourself.”

Her laugh comes out roughly, and she pulls away. “Oh, I intend to.” She abruptly pinches a nipple, and you whine and push against her. She coos softly. “Before we begin, you should know two things, at least: first, you shall ask for anything you so desire, and second, should it ever go too far, you will tell me to stop. Preferably, actually, before it comes to that.”

You know she’s expecting an acknowledgement of some kind, but she knows you know this, and she’s decided to make it difficult for you by laving over a nipple with her tongue. 

“Come on, then,” she breathes into the curve of your breast. “What do you want, hm?”

The answer to that is, as always, to help her. It’s how this all started, after all. You grip at the sheets, trying to ground yourself, find your bearings. 

“I want to share in your anger,” you manage between breaths. “To feel it.”

Her teeth scrape at your nipple, leaving you arching as she switches to the other side. You feel the press of her teeth against your flesh, bared into something vicious. She has not denied you anything yet. So, she promises: “Then, you will.”

Without preamble, she straightens up. Cold air rushes to replace her, forcing a shiver through you. 

She gazes down at you, heated and bordering on reverent, and she sighs. “You’re beautiful.” Something about her darkens. “You obey so readily, so prettily. I wonder… would you let me fit you for a collar? No—bruises would suit better. Yes, so pretty. I should have you aching for me. Would you ask me for it? Get on your knees and beg me? Well, regardless, I will not do it if it isn’t invited.”

You tremble at her words. “Please.”

“So polite. Will you thank me after? It’s the proper thing to do.” Then, as quickly as it had graced her face, her sly smile falls away. She looks regretfully down at you, and it’s a genuine thing. “In all honesty, however, my patience has worn too thin these past few days—ordinarily, you’d have to work much harder for my firmer hand. You should take advantage. Tell me what you want.”

“ _Please_ ,” you repeat, grasping out for her hand. Yes, her firmer hand, for she only has firm ones. “Touch me. Do whatever you want. Just do something, please.”

She rips her hand away from you and pins your wrists above your head. Still, when she speaks, her voice never rises. It’s authoritative, chiding, yes, but not mean. “Keep still, now. If you would like something, you will ask me.”

“I’m sorry,” you choke out, hyperaware of the way her naked body drags over yours. She shifts a bit, just to torture you a bit more. “Nadia, please.”

“Where did you come from, my magician?” she asks, rhetorically, the last two words coming out in breathy wonder. “So eager and pliant, following at my heels so doggedly. Like my own little pet, almost.”

You tense at that, clenching around nothing, and she gives you a knowing smile. 

“And you’re considerate, too,” she continues, “submitting yourself to me so that I may work my frustrations out.”

“Please touch me.”

Nosing at your cheek, she hums, and you feel it vibrating into your skin. Her hand smooths over your stomach, moves down, and ghosts over your cunt. In quick succession, just as your body tries to jerk upwards to meet her, the other hand shoves your pelvis down. You make a strangled sound, conscious of the fact that there are most definitely guards stationed right outside. 

Your desperate gaze meets her approving one. She dips her head into the crook of your neck and, as her hand poizes over your clitoral hood, she asks, “Should I bite?”

You’re hissing out an insistent, “ _Yes_ ,” at both her actions and to her question before she even finishes speaking. 

And she clamps down, stronger than you expected, at the same time that she circles around your clit, and you strain upwards, mouth falling open. She licks and sucks at the mark she’s left, fingers speeding up a bit. The noise that claws out your throat is a stifled, choking sort of thing.

You think a blood vessel in your face might burst from the amount of effort you are putting into staying quiet. 

“Well?” she murmurs, hovering over a new spot on your neck. “What do you say?”

It takes you a second to remember, and the moment you do, you moan quietly at the thought of it. “Thank you,” you say, weakly. She waits, unmoving, and you stare helplessly downwards, brain flipflopping through the many different paths Nadia could take. You can’t pick. “Please. More, please.”

“More,” she muses, a warm huff of laughter fanning across your sternum. 

Classic Nadia, she’s already well equipped for this particular request and she reminds you of this equipment with a pointed bump to your vulva, the girth of it resting on you but for a second. She really is nothing if not prepared. Her foresight astounds you. Once again, Nadia holds you down firmly when you go searching for more. 

She makes the motion again, albeit leisurely and steadier. Inch by inch, she drags herself through your folds. It presses into your clit and you keen. 

“Be bold for me again,” she encourages, nipping and kissing at your chest. “Ask for it.”

“Can you…” You flounder a little. You can at least cover your indecision with a groan in reaction to Nadia’s prodding—that is, her verbal taunts and also the literal prodding of her cock, slipping easily through and through again.

“Ask,” she pronounces.

You know what she wants to hear and, really, its hardly embarrassing considering the fact that you’re both buck naked and already in the midst of having sex, and you’ve spent the past few minutes rubbing desperately against her. But, well, it’s still a little weird. 

Have you ever even done this before? Is this your first time? And, there, yet another thing your amnesia is ruining for you this week. You hope that there’s muscle memory that might kick in at some point tonight if you needed it. It wouldn’t do to disappoint Nadia, and so:

“Can you please fuck me?” you finally wrestle out, jaw clenched tight. 

Nadia obliges, reaching down to position the head at your entrance and sinking in almost halfway. She swallows your answering groan in a searing kiss and then captures your lower lip between two perfect rows of white. 

Your eyes squint open, and you see the delighted look on her face at your every reaction to her movements. You see the way her lips slip into more of a sneer as she bites down. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to make you yelp. 

Even now, she refuses to let you move underneath her. You only have so much space to wiggle, and you utilize it all as effectively as possible. Which is to say, not very. 

Her hands run down your sides, coming to a stop at your waist and her grip constricts. In one swift move, she hilts and stands up. You curse under your breath, stiffening up at the intrusion. She towers over you and takes in the sight of you squirming in her iron grip. 

The length and girth suit you just fine; delightful, heavy pressure against your walls, splitting you open. Nadia moves a damp strand of hair away from your forehead and then braces herself on that arm. Inside you, her cock nestles deeper, and you grunt, twisting the duvet in your white-knuckled fists. 

She cups a breast and sweeps her thumb just under the nipple. You lift up into her, pleased when she accepts the invitation and flicks her finger over it again, firmer this time. 

Nadia grins, and you wish so badly that you could cup her face, to cherish that expression a little longer. 

You know, by now, what she’s expecting of you. 

“Th— _hhh_ ,” your voice breaks off into an abrupt exhale when she gives an experimental, shallow thrust. “ _Fuck_. Thank you.”

She laughs. “My pleasure, truly.” 

On the next thrust, you have to choke back a loud moan. That might be a problem. 

Nadia realizes in the same moment, pulling out completely and gesturing towards the head of the bed. Suddenly, you are empty and needy, and a whimper escapes you. 

“Patience, now,” she reproaches. “We can’t have them hearing you, lest we get ourselves into deeper trouble. Though, I suppose, I could just have you gagged.” Despite that, she nudges you, nodding again in the direction of the headboard. “Kneel, facing in.”

You’re still a little winded over half the things she just said, but you move anyway, mainly on autopilot.

You shuffle up to her pillows, kneeling. Your hands, of their own volition, reach out and bunch up in the cushions. The bed dips behind you, and you twist to look as Nadia comes behind you in all her naked glory. 

The knot inside your belly tightens, and you become very cognizant of how slick you are. So many moments between you have led up to this, your coupling. Is foreplay supposed to last that long? 

She narrows her eyes at you when she notices your staring. 

You swallow and turn back to stare at the royal purple of her headboard. 

“My, my, you really are so obedient,” she murmurs, closer now. You can feel her breath on your shoulder blade. Her lips follow. 

“I—” you try to start, only she drags her hot mouth up your flesh, to the hard bit of muscle where your shoulder meets your neck, and you choke on your words. 

Her hands dance over the small of your back, up to your sides, down again, and then an arm hooks around your front and pulls you flush against her. There is not a single pocket of space between you. You feel the points of her nipples against your back, the presence of her cock between your legs, the almost unbearable heat of her body. 

“What?” You feel her teeth on you. “What is it? What do you want?”

“To, to, to help.” Pathetic. You swallow, try to stop your own babbling, fail. “To free you.”

She stops now. “Free me?” she asks, and there’s real confusion there. “From what?”

“Everything,” of course. “You—you’re deserving of everything. You shouldn’t…”

“What? I shouldn’t what?” she demands, and you answer:

“You shouldn’t have to… deal with all this.” You want to sit down and beg her to open up to you, let her make you useful again. Still, you’re also startlingly aware of her sticky, sweaty, intoxicating heat. It’s too much. It’s hard to form intelligent thought. “You should not be limited so.”

“But I do. But I am,” she says fiercely. She’s begun to shake, you realize, with rage. “I do have to deal with this, and I cannot go beyond certain limits. I had not. This is the reality I— _we_ are faced with.”

For once, she’s speaking to you with scorn. You flush with shame and arousal from the shame, and more shame for that. 

“Face this reality. You must.” She’s speaking in that commanding tone now. You have no choice but to obey. 

Before, she hadn’t strayed from the boundaries around her, because she couldn’t. She wasn’t ready to. Now, she is readying for it. Now, she is shouldering the weight she had neglected. And she _did_ neglect it, prior to everything that has happened. She hadn’t always been this person that had so much conviction, it left you breathless. Her inaction was a conscious, continuous decision. The consequences, you must confront. She has, and she will. Even if it makes her feel furious and indignant and humiliated. Yes, you must face this reality. 

It’s unfair to keep her on a pedestal. She made mistakes in the past and will make mistakes in the future, and you will give her free rein anyway. This is what would help her, understanding and still— _still_ —yielding, stepping back, trusting. 

You steel yourself, nodding. “Yes. Okay. Help me understand.”

Something has shifted, implicitly. Reset. Nadia holds you tight enough that you can’t tell where you end and where she begins. She hums, then, with approval, and again you feel the vibration of her chest against you. Her free hand drifts over your chest, your chin, tucks a hair behind your ear. Your heartbeats thunder together. You’ve never experienced anything so intimate in your life, you’re sure of that.

“Please.”

She shushes you, not unkindly. “The rules still apply,” she reminds you, “Ask for what you want. Tell me when to stop.”

You’re shaking almost violently now, and you’re afraid she can’t tell that you’ve nodded, but then she sighs into your neck and bites down. Hard. And her hand clamps around your mouth so you can’t even cry out. 

She doesn’t draw blood, and she soothes the bruise with the scorch of her tongue. Releasing you, she drops a kiss there. 

Unceremoniously, she shoves you down, bending you at the waist, and plants a hand on your smarting shoulder. The cock is realigned to your weeping cunt and then she grips your waist, holding you still before you can even think to slide back onto her. 

Waits. 

You take a moment to grip the sheets, to take in the situation: you, presenting yourself to her. In your mind’s eye, you see yourself wanton and open, and a desperate sound tries to escape you. You catch it in time, biting down on a cushion. Ah, that’s why she has you here, face driven into her pillows. 

And out of nowhere—the crack of her palm on your ass. 

You cry out into your pillow and then, at the resulting sting, you keen. 

Right. You need to ask. 

A hand strokes the nape of your neck. With great effort, you drag your head up, sucking in a loud, shaky breath. 

She’s playing at patience now, rubbing a thumb over your skin, keeping herself deadly still at your entrance. 

So, you ask. 

“Anything for you,” she says, pleased, wicked, obliging, and in one fell swoop, she hilts herself into you. 

Quickly, you dump your face back into the pillow, muffling yourself. 

Your universe has narrowed down to the thick length inside you, the drag against your inner walls. You’re hyperaware of every twitch, every movement. 

Honestly, she can’t seem to decide on what to do with you now. She pulls out fully and rams back in, and makes a sound of consideration over your answering moan. Then, she does it again only she ekes herself halfway out and enters so achingly slowly, you think you might have lost all concept of time. And thrusts twice, shallowly. 

“What do you want?” she asks, after a beat. 

Anything will do, really. Mainly, you remind her: “Your anger.”

You feel her curl around your back, feel the curve of her lips against your skin. She licks the divot of your spine, and it’s unbelievably erotic. “Oh,” she sighs, “my love,” and kisses your back once more before pulling away. “Okay.”

She pulls out, so only the bulbous head of her cock rests inside you. One hand grips the back of your neck, the other falls onto one of your wrists, pinning you down under her weight. When she slams in, you’re afraid the clap of her body against yours is loud enough to alert the guards, but she clearly doesn’t think so, because she does it again, and again, and again.

The pace is punishing, suffocating. You think you might be screaming your throat raw if you didn’t have to be quiet. Something certainly feels raw. 

Your lungs burn, airflow halted by the cushion. 

She doesn’t care. You’re sure she knows if the way her hand flexes and holds your head down is any indication. 

With every thrust, your body rocks forward. Suddenly, you think you may have underestimated it when you thought this was an acceptable size for a dildo. Perhaps, probably, it’s the force at which she’s fucking you that’s making this border on pain. You pulse and throb around the unrelenting intrusion. The line between pleasure and pain goes a little blurry, errs a little too much on the side of pain.

But then she lets go of your neck, and her fingers reach around and press down on your swollen clit, and the sensation shifts back to the perfect pleasure-pain you had not known you were hoping for. Your first inhale is ragged and comes back out in a harsh exhale almost immediately after when she bottoms out into you again. 

Somehow, you manage to contain your cries long enough to breathe in a sufficient amount of air before you press your face back into the pillow and let it all go. With every brutal thrust, you huff out a moan and too much precious air. It feels like a struggle, your coupling. The way you both intend this to be. 

A laugh escapes her; it’s a low rumbling thing that makes you squeeze hotly around her cock. “Is this what you wanted? You wanted me like this?” 

Your parade of yeses starts before you even twist your face away from the pillow. When she can hear you, your voice is strained and breaks off every time she fucks into you.

“You would have me like this? Angry and unreasonable?” She bites again, in the same place as the first time, and releases you after she’s already pushed it back into too-painful, just for a moment.

Still, you nod frantically. “Yes. _Yes_.” 

“Lovely,” she breathes. Her tone has changed once more. The wonder is back, thick fury siphoning away. You think you might be a little disoriented from whiplash. “Thank you.”

Her fingers circle around your clit once, twice—

You slap a hand over the back of your own head, making sure you’re buried in her pillow so you can scream and weep as you come. 

It really is an out of body experience. And out of everyone, you should know out of body experiences.

Your awareness returns in increments. 

She’s lodged inside you. Her nails scratch lightly, repeatedly, down your back. Distantly, you hear that music again, from her end table. 

“Um,” you say. It feels, emotionally, like you’ve been hurled bodily into a pane of glass. Physically, well, you hope all this drama subsides soon so you can spend the rest of your life doing this with her. 

The motion stops, nails digging in momentarily. You feel bereft. 

There’s a crick in your neck, so you can’t exactly turn to look at her. Stiltedly, you ask, “Are you all right?”

She makes a jolt of noise, almost a bark of laughter. Then: “Yes. Yes, I’m all right.” Her hand combs through your hair. “And you?”

You can see why she laughed. It is a little ridiculous. “Yeah,” you say with a grin. “But, uh, could you, maybe, pull out now?”

“Oh.” She does so, extricating herself completely. 

You’re sensitive, but the slick friction feels good anyway. Nonetheless, you don’t think you could go again so soon—certainly not if she’ll fuck you with that same bruising power.

She knows, too. You hear the clacking of buckles, the thud of something landing on the floor. Slowly, you flatten yourself onto the mattress, onto her million thread sheets, and you roll over. 

Fondly, Nadia smiles down at you. 

“Thank you,” you say, remembering. 

Her little giggle makes you feel like the sun is shining down on you. “You’re welcome.”

You sit up or attempt to. You end up leaning on your elbows, boneless as you are. She takes the hint, though, and meets you halfway for a tender kiss. 

Her hands come to your shoulders, covering all her marks. When she pulls back, peels her palms away, she eyes them. She was careful not to break the skin. Once she’s sure you’re actually okay, she nods and looks back into your eyes. For the most fleeting second, she looked overwhelmed. Scared. It was gone as soon as it appeared, though. 

“Ordinarily, I would hold you all night,” she murmurs, apologetically. 

You look over her shoulder, at the twin doors that lead out into the hallway. They stand tall and silent. Foreboding. You turn back to her. “It’s okay.” You touch her cheek, trying for a smile. “Ordinarily, I would reciprocate.”

She shakes her head; you knew she would. “Next time,” she promises. 

A gust of wind blows in. A strand of hair, loose from her braid, flutters across her damp forehead, and you feel short of breath just looking at her. There’s a deep pain in your chest, then, at the thought of how wonderful she is. How much she has gone through and will go through. You won’t rest easy tonight, at the petrifying idea of tomorrow, but it won’t be unbearable. You’ve helped her tonight, you’re sure. 

“Next time,” you echo. 

You get off the bed first, dressing quickly. She sits on her heels, seeming to watch you, though there’s a faraway look in her eyes. You’re not so timid as you were when the night started, but the room is still huge, and you’re small in comparison. Goosebumps rise from your skin. You ignore it, crossing to pick up her robe. 

“Nadia.” 

She blinks. Cranes her head to the side. 

You clamber back onto the bed, trying not to wince at the soreness between your legs. Next time, you’ll make do with two or three fingers. Next time, you’ll attend to her first. 

She doesn’t move or make a sound as you come up behind her, draping the silk over her shoulders. You coax her arms into each sleeve, smoothing the material down over her arms. You leave it untied. 

After that, you drop your head to press kisses from one shoulder to the nape of her neck to the other. You sweep over the side of her neck, leaving a trail on the hook of her jaw, the hollow of her cheek, her temple. You crawl back around to her front, taking her hands in yours, and you kiss her knuckles. 

She moves, then, sliding a hand up and around your back, so she can claim another kiss—the most chaste one yet. 

She regards you in the firelight, inscrutable. “I’ll… see you. Tomorrow.”

“Yes. Tomorrow.” Rather inelegantly, you depart her bed. On the way, you shove the pillow you ruined aside. There are bite marks, you notice, which makes your face go hot, and you thank every god that she hasn’t noticed yet. She wouldn’t be mean, of course, it’s just embarrassing. 

You slip back out the balcony, careful not to knock over any planters. The climb down will be much harder, aching the way you are. You sigh, committing yourself to the arduous journey ahead of you. 

Later, once your feet have touched solid ground, you’ll look up at her balcony, at the stars shining above. She’ll have changed the song by then. A gentle, melancholy tune that will drift from her open doors. You’ll listen to its conclusion. Then, you’ll turn around and walk away and, tomorrow, you’ll see her again.

**Author's Note:**

> some porn for the end of 2020, lmk whatcha think


End file.
